Friday, September 02, 2005

Looting and finding, natural and unnatural

Over the past couple of days, I take it that those of use who have access to AP photos on the web have become acquainted with the distinction between looting:




and finding:



As insult added to the grievous injuries suffered in New Orleans, this would be sad and deplorable enough were it just symptomatic of media discourse, a distortion of tragic reality. These images, with their by-now-infamous captions, however, are more than an ideological screen, but serve as a fairly direct expression of the material situation itself -- flows of supplies, transport, medicine, life chances, all are organized around this racist imaginary. One has a hard time believing that the federal government's unimaginably buffoonish response to a disaster of this magnitude would be tolerated were it happening in, say, the Hamptons.

I'm not sure how much solace to take in this, but at least the germ of a different story seemed to be getting through in television coverage this morning. Several news outlets had survivors at the convention center talking quite pointedly about how self-organized bands of "looters" had been the most immediate relief agency for their communities. I'm sure that by this afternoon, though, we'll be back to lumping survival tactics, random panic violence, and rape and arson into the same undifferentiated and menacing black mass.

I suppose for the moment, we just get angry and sad and send money to the usual places. But there has to be some kind of political accounting for this -- by which I mean not just the short-term "political" horizon of election cycles, but a whole mode of organizing cities as modes of life that has roots hundreds of years deep. In everthing but proximate cause, New Orleans is a human-engineered disaster, from the hubris of the Army Corps of Engineers to the federal starvation budgets that doomed that hubris to an early encounter with fate, and from the casual racism and class oppression of land use (who lives on low ground in the coastal South, almost universally?), to the police-state apartheid that's always characterized the "multicultural" city.

Right now, I'm just hoping, I presume with everyone else, that as many people survive as possible. Somewhere down the road, though, that principle of survival (and its most immediate face is in reality a certain form of "looting") must become the wedge that opens up these questions beyond the scope of immediate catastrophe, with as much force as might be necessary.

There are no natural disasters in a racist class society.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Robert Creeley, 1926-2005

It's taken the sad news of Robert Creeley's passing to bring me back here, just to mark in some way all that he was, in words and in person, to me among so many others. Those others have already said well much of what needs to be said -- the necessary clarity of a poetry based on hearing words, the generosity of the man as teacher, listener, and friend. There isn't really much that I can add that's particular to me. In fact, if I had to say what Bob was to so many younger poets, it's that he was particular to all of us, in company, as he might say. So my Bob story is the same as many others': at 17, discovering in his writing that "poet" was something I might be, at 24 discovering in his talk and presence that being a poet was a matter of finding endless resource in small talk, small occurrence, a life lived, and since then returning to his work and through him to others as one measure of what that life, and the company in which he continued to insist on locating it, might be.

Speaking of measure, the poem I wrote today in lieu of working looks for prosody to Williams and Zukofsky -- but those are measures I first heard clearly through Bob. There's also a story buried in there of his remarks to our Zukofsky reading group upon returning from a viewing of Babe with his daughter. That one came back to me this morning, a laugh breaking through the sadness walking around Lake Merritt. So thanks for that, too, Bob. I miss you.


Lines for Robert Creeley, 1926-2005

If between lines
Holes

To be a
Part

Of come apart—
Of

The time between
Lines

“A breathing crisis”
In

The mouth of
Speech

That is speech
This

I learned to
Hear

Hearing you who
Would

Not teach but
Heard

And I saw
You

Hearing it or
Heard

You seeing that
Hole

In words between
Words

That is to
Say

*

Between two it
Opens

As a hitch
Closing

Eyes the gasp
Listens

To the gap
Echoes

Beckon two to
Enter

Take a turn
Ancient

Turn of phrase
Taken

As literal together
Around

The lake say
Cloudless

In the gap
Between

Spring rains the
Covers

Blown back and
Nothing

To be seen
Beyond

That blue the
Housecat

There turns double
Enters

Space between lines
Crosshatched

In wire enclosing
Chickens

In their geodesic
Shelter

In fact of
Hunger

Mouth of appetite
Open

*

That dear pig
Parable

You called it
Returning

From the multiplex
Purposive

Called that wide
Wandering

Tight spots to
Extricate

Oneself from the
Slaughterhouse

For instance purpose
Animating

Meat’s escape into
Ongoing

“One’s simply food
Otherwise”

*

Liveforever flower in
Zukofsky read

In your measure
I thought

And think a
Form of

Selfishness in me
To be

Yours and name
What you

Would have to
Go on

Being in my
Rush to

Write and fill
That gap

In place of
Standing by

To let you
Pass there

But what thinks
In holes

Is all thought
The whole

Of where you
Are not

Now but fact
Of it


You said again
And again

The albumen blobs
Ducks leave

Underfoot here eucalyptus
Acrid after

Three days of
Wet what

Breathed in what
Walked over

What I stand
On beside

The blinding lake
The gap

In what’s to
See water

Flows into location
An indrawn

Hitch I can
Almost stand

*

The line turns
At its end

To holes in
Words in which

We meet to
Face each other

As what goes
In what turns

One to face
Another passing by

Thursday, December 02, 2004

My Habit / My Habitrail -- Convention Notes, part one

I’ve been reading around in some particularly challenging poems lately, Laura Moriarty’s Self-Destruction, John Wilkinson’s two Salt books, Effigies Against the Light and Contrivances, Rob Halpern’s Rumored Place, etc. I suppose what I’m finding so difficult, and so breath-taking, about these poems is a paradox of the extreme clarity they sometimes make evident. In all three instances, though in quite different ways, this clarity stems from what a reader who values the “experimental,” the “formally innovative,” the “difficult,” might be tempted to dismiss as conventions – whether of lyric syntax, the stock of poetic common topoi (songs to the moon, for example), or the isolation of the luminous moment of epiphany. And in a way this dismissive reading is at least half right: in brightly-lit, foregrounded moments throughout all these works, the movement of the poem hangs again and again on a turn of phrase, a form, a mode of address that is thoroughly conventional. It’s the second half, though, the dismissive judgment of that reading, that I think comes up short in the face of work like this. What these books have been opening up to me is the vast, murky strangeness of convention, its tendency to turn against itself or to turn itself outward into weird, convoluted shapes whose familiarity most often indexes the paucity of our own real thinking about them. Another judgment might emerge at the end of this reading: that my own notions of the strange, the original, the unprecedented, are themselves pretty thoroughly conventional.



Laura’s book is the first place I encountered this, reading it in manuscript a few years ago and having a great deal of difficulty with its often unadorned plainness that somehow never resolves into reassuring simplicity, then re-opening it in published form last month to experience the same difficulties along with a growing certainty that what I was running up against was not a limit of the poem but a limit of my reading, which is to say, of the relation then pertaining between myself and the work. In this way, the book has been one of those rare instances of poetic education – I’ve had to learn to read differently in a more general sense in order to read Self-Destruction in particular. It’s also the one case of the three I’ve listed above in which “convention” gets explicitly thematized as such. In a way, my attempts to read this whole range of work starts there. But for that reason, I’ll be working back to Self-Destruction. I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to do this: it’s conceivable that the day job’s demands will continue to be insane well into February. Really, I’m not sure that I’ll finish this project at all, or that it’s even a project. So I’m giving in, right up front, to the tendency of blogs to become holding pens for indications of things the writer intends one day to write about. Gentle readers (all three of you) – you’ve been warned, and I hope all expectations are suitably lowered.



Anyway, I thought I’d start with a poem by John Wilkinson, reading in particular his overamplification of some of the conventional possibilities for stylized, “heightened” syntax in the lyric poem. This is, of course, a partial reading, and there are many other things of note in this particular piece, and in the two books of his I’ve been reading. It does, I think reveal something about the work, though, and so it seems worth doing – rather like constructing a generalizing description of a place through a small polling sample, keeping in mind that something is there, but that the margin of error is likely to be quite high.






When the psychic system fails its subordinate shall think,
lengthening out of no-way-
disowning, rides the brilliant lanyard given its head, slots
the whole into the first place,
busying though it slacken. A spindle hauls its puny scope
circled by hygienic blossom:
this way reports, measures the light saturation underfoot.



Its inventory upholds the stained glass when motes fizzle
through the atrium dominates
the HQ building. Chunky steel-frame chairs were drawn
away by servants white-clad.
Inside an access tunnel, children doze with scorched feet.
Don’t neglect the edifice
whose nearness to collapse has an organism waiting on it…




(John Wilkinson, Saccades,in Contrivances, p. 45)

I’ve chosen this passage from a much longer poem in part because a characteristic movement of Wilkinson’s syntax here coincides with a thematic development that can be taken as a direct commentary on it. What I suggested above as an unscientifically small sample turns out to be even less reliable: a push poll. Such is reading.



Wilkinson’s repeated suppression of the relative pronoun at moments throughout this poem – “that,” “which,” “who,” see especially, in the cited excerpt, the first sentence of the second stanza – of course echoes a long-established convention in the English lyric tradition, as do many of Saccades’ other prominent syntactical maneuvers (adjectives nominalized, inverted noun-phrases, etc.). What distinguishes their use in this work is, at first glance, simply a matter of quantity, or perhaps density. Is there a point, though, at which this rather more emphatic leaning-on the conventions of lyric performance breaks out of the contractual frame of normative lyric? Is the latent possibility of a lyric undoing scripted into the conventional elevation of lyric poiesis itself? (I’ve written on this same head with regard to narrative prose in my essay “Narrative Occupation and Uneven Enclosure,” now in print in Biting the Error, with reference to the capacity of long sentences in English to become unhinged, not through a deliberate departure from grammatical order, but from an excess of that order. Lack of declension in English creates a syntactical space in which, at some arbitrary point, an excess of grammatical subordination produces a series of insurbordinate clauses that only a recursive reading-for-grammar will reveal to cohere as a sentence. (Sorry for the plug, but the book arrived by mail yesterday, coupled with a reading last night by some of the other contributors, so I’m feeling a bit giddy)).



The cautionary note, the real work done by Wilkinson’s accumulation of lyric conventions that come to undo themselves, seems to me an insistence that such formal self-destruction of structural determination is not a simple equivalent for liberation, either of the reader, the writer, the text, or the social relations which mediate their exchange. In a poem like Saccades, subordination, once negated thematically in the first stanza quoted above (“its subordinate shall think”), and in the process of its performative negation as grammar by the incomplete or short-circuited relativity of clauses in the second (“when motes fizzle / through the atrium dominates / the HQ building”), returns as precisely the insubordinate, thinking subject’s “inventory” of its objects severed from externally produced relation. The self-same bureaucratic architecture whose structural overdetermination leads to the rupture of insubordination, though, is here rebuilt out of the need to enumerate and measure these fragments in their liberated state. The eye flits among them, seemingly without regard to any command of the object-world over its choice of focus, literally a saccade. Alighting freely here and there, it builds as if by fate the very structure of command whose sublation its untethered roving was supposed to have been.



The reader who adheres to the parsimony principle (nb: Nada has a suggestive comment on the shortcomings of this chestnut, in her comment box to today’s post) becomes fully complicit in this re-emergence of oppressive positive structure, recognizing as he or she does the “correct” solution to the difficulty posed by the elision of relative pronouns. He or she reads relativity back in and supplies the missing “that,” “who,” or “which,” according to a well-established convention of lyric compression and elevation. Here, though, is where another convention is activated by negation, and this one bears more directly and witheringly on some of my own rather too-cursorily examined poetic commitments. What had looked at first like a neat dialectical hip-toss – Wilkinson demonstrating that the free multiplicity of vectors produced/encountered by the fabled active reader could be located in the heart of lyric convention itself – encounters contradiction displaced to this new, higher level. The argument being made here, if one could characterize this as argument, is that the reader’s discovery of his or her freedom in the secret undoing of textual subordination from within, is simply the rediscovery of rule. The freedom of the active reader is precisely the forced sovereign choice of a legible structure. Bureaucratic architectures impose themselves on our attentions not from without, but from within the experience of an “inventory” of liberated particulars that was held out to us as a line of escape. All our shaky political claims for a liberated language practice are given a nasty jerk back toward the path of their own production of power. (The other dictionary meaning of “saccade” is germane here: a sharp jerk on the reins to change a horse’s direction, or the movement of a horse resulting from such a jerk).



This discovery of a higher order of contradiction – a return not of the repressed, but of repression – could easily lapse into a gloating cynicism over foreclosed possibilities for either politics or poetics. If one were to locate an imagination of a less constrained, less baleful poetic and historical order here (thanks to Rob Halpern’s reading last night for those “baleful historical orders”), one would have to inquire along a somewhat more difficult path. This reading would need to short-circuit the logic that proceeds as if by fate from the return of the same to the mute fact of the same-which-has-returned, a final stasis in which the end of the poem and the end of history set up shop in the HQ building. The possibility of such an imagined stall or lapse – a deferral of specificity-as-fact by specificity-of-relation, to riff on Nada a bit more – gets positioned again and again in this poem of Wilkinson’s by keeping the “insubordination machine” (or, as I’ve said, the “over-subordination machine”) of his syntax operative throughout the poem, never letting it become exemplary or productive of the moment in which the reader has definitively failed to grasp freedom. Rather, in returning over and over again to the sore spot where the non-choice between active-readerly insubordination and bureaucratic stability is forced, the poem calls a reader to recognize him/herself in the object-world thus built at that site of impasse. (Interestingly, mirrors play a major role in other sections of the poem than the one I’ve quoted here. "Look at what you’re doing here").



Transcending this recurrent cusp of bad politics – the politics we all know, the bifurcation-point where we choose without other recourse either to submit to rule or to become rule ourselves – shall have been founded on an ethical and social act of non-recognition, not on an aesthetic shape. That is, it shall have been a refusal of that which in ourselves resembles and confirms the shape of the world and the text. Reading, we come to the place where the possibility of anything being otherwise rests in our acknowledging our incapacity for reading, where our activation as readers will need to be a refusal to produce legibility that stops, in a way, before the text does. We have to stop congratulating ourselves on seeing through to the “real crux of things” – this, taken as an end in itself, is a ruse of rule, Ahab’s injunction to “strike through the mask.”



If we are to make our way out of this poem, we readers will need to traduce what is most ourselves in it.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Unidentified Strangers




The contract, binding hand and foot –
that ought to comfort you. We’re a nation of law
drawn to scale the mirror simply to become the case
as a nod to sacrifice
maybe maybe maybe I can be more clear.
No eye’s the eye to understand it
rots the body out
to our people to obey the law that ought to
stand your ground as burial in view of
motel rooms during demolition if I
maybe maybe I can be more
this tiny body
for another passage And the representative spirit, bursting
out of the domestic analogy, into the crawlspace
or the walls, the staircase, molten glass
by which one fixes residence.
The instructions went out to our people
with short-haul freight: sewer sludge, cable spools, tons
of labor, of such navigation past
the water-stress against the crumbling earthen foot
could be some divine strength, so look,
it’s cool. It just got way too difficult
to adhere to law. That ought to comfort you
by diffraction – the anthem draws a line
of camps a writing on the plain: forms
the word a million tongues have slithered up me
to economize the virtualities of space
until a lateral wall should stretch us wide
– a razor in the mouth cut trenches for the disarmed dead,
the cast-off gun or less
exact what’s left the object-form says you, says we
are a nation of law. We adhere to
the ceiling, thrust down on us like doubt.



To hang on for as long
as this to grommets at the banner’s edge
The child – through phases of the satellite feed …in
and out – it’s all one, if not yet all the same for each
what started when we thought the air a dome
and singing on a sparkling marble stage
cut shares of living space in half-hour slots.
Nudity peels off a skin enfolds the screen that other room
– like for like, can’t leave. Each single wiry hair pricks the palate
where they dance and fuck, adhere to laws. We have
laws on the books. You might look at
relocation, survival of the fields and shops of process
is a landscape picture indistinct from land.
Wring the hands like cane shared flesh or shred pitched brick
builds the heart of town, the streets
a grievance in the human face
are soot to suck from pores…gray water
in the single instance, flee the lip
to be united. The solid state, crushed together
in the living pharaonic tomb, while the soil subsides
just prior to events. I know precisely how



to show you. I don’t understand
how we are many – we burn along the shore
without examining the same.
We were interminable in this place this cage might look at
those laws might provide comfort
to the citizen renouncing membership,
her mouth congested with a tongue
troweling mortar on its own teeth –
right down the town’s throat.
Ample and uncharted in that night,
an expansive list of charges offscreen the love offering
steadfast hand in dying fires
and dark matter or dark matters
to the body huddled in a rug
pulled out into its own sore sum.



But the mouth breaks in two, and then you pay for dental work.
Teeth come forth come out furrowed undead legion, rooting
in the juice of function – a handful of metal a metal hand
comes down on the brow as our reverse. Whatever
adheres to law that ought to comfort you
do such things to help remember us
who didn’t pay. But someone did. Along the walls
hands trail unraised, grope on your behalf …was faking dead
An instrument, curved behind, recalls us to our threshing:
work… and I’m tired of it and I’m tired I’m tired and
your tongue’s cold track drying in my palm shared flesh belongs
by weight of die and press, shreds matted in the hair,
to you, working on it now up close – explosive it as good belongs
to me: the rifle round, my terror reflex, we hail this ghost